


Remem'er Me

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-20 15:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: 'That one time that he only allows himself to remember once in a while.'





	Remem'er Me

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Remem'er Me

## Remem'er Me

#### by Auds and Ends

Date: Wednesday, May 29, 2002 11:37 PM 

Title: Remem'er Me (WIP)  
Authors: Auds & Ends (audsn) Keywords: SkinnDogg, Slash, Skinnerfic/Doggettfic Spoilers: none, really.  
Archive: Umm... I dunno-ask Auds! 

Rating: NC-17, baby! (Mostly `cause of Auds's part, but hey, that's OKAY! ;o} ) 

Summary: 'That one time that he only allows himself to remember once in a while...' 

Disclaimers: These yummy-lookin' MEN and their friends are not ours (unfortunately)... So, please, ask the appropriate parties for them if you wanna have a good time...! 

Authors' Notes: Ends - First attempts at slash are always awkward, so please 'go easy on me!' (nudge, nudge, wink, wink!) Auds - I'M DYLEXIC, AND PROUD OF IT!!! *in light of the show's finale, this takes place in AU* 

* * *

The wind rustled through the trees behind him, and caused the leaves to hiss, and the branches to creak and groan against one another. 

He closed his eyes and listened, somewhat comforted by the sound. 

He liked that sound. 

It sounded like some of the things he'd known most of his life. 

Loneliness. 

Pain. 

Abandonment. 

Loss. 

The wind was just like him. Hollow. Empty. 

Ditto the trees, and leaves, and branches. Just like him, they're dying, too. 

A slow, lonely, painful death. 

With only time and age and storms for spectators. 

And companions. 

Companions. Christ, he was getting more and more poetic by the year, wasn't he? 

Companions. 

He'd had a lot of those in the past. 

He curled a large hand around a half-empty bottle of beer and sighed. 

The beer had warmed somewhat; he'd left it sitting untouched beside him too long. 

Too long. 

Too long ago. 

Too long ago, he had companions. Lots of `em. 

The first few ones had been young. Too young, just like him, then. Now, at his age, he had the decency to admit that. The decency to acknowledge the fact that in his stupid, dumb-assed youth, he had suffered from a sick, father complex. 

Dollars to donuts. 

His father had died when he was young-what was a fourteen year-old kid to do? 

With his mother working crazy hours, tryin' to feed three hungry kids who never let up with the questions... What was he to do? 

He was almost a man when his father had died. A man. Yeah. Right. Almost. 

So he did as he was told. Did as his daddy told him to. Did what his daddy told him to do-always. 

Take care of your brother. Take care of your sister, boy. 

Don't let any damn fool ruin her life. 

And son? 

Take care of your momma. 

He did what any boy would have done, at his age, in his situation, in his shoes. 

He developed the father complex. 

What was he supposed to do? 

At fourteen, he was the oldest kid in the family, and momma needed help. 

Fourteen, and he took care of his brother. And sister. And mother. 

Christ. 

No wonder he lost his virginity at sixteen. Seventeen. Fifteen? 

He wasn't sure any more, but hell-back then, that was scandalous. 

He couldn't even remember her name. Her face, he remembered... The colour of her hair, the feel of her innocent skin against his hands... 

He looked down at the beer, amazed that it hadn't boiled or sizzled yet. 

All this remembering was makin' him feel things... 

Things he'd thought he'd buried, after all this time. 

Huh. 

Then there was his wife. 

His ex-wife. 

He took a brusque swig from the bottle and shook his head. 

Nah. Not gonna go there. Not tonight. Did that yesterday. Did that last night. And the night before. `Think my ex needs a rest for tonight...' 

So. 

Who else? 

He closed his eyes and threw his head back. He smiled up--at the stars he couldn't see. 

Ah, he remembered. 

Of course. Why wouldn't he? 

Monica. 

The strange one. The freaky one. The self-professed goof. 

His best friend. 

Well, one of `em. 

His only best friend who was a woman. 

The only best friend he ever- 

Well... 

Should he go there? 

Maybe. Maybe not. 

Conjurin' up images of Mon never ceased to amaze him. 

Seems every time he did that, every time he thought of her that way- 

Hell, she always freaked him out. Freaks him out still. 

That damn connection. 

Gets him every time. 

One dirty thought, one stray, horny memory of the two of them, and, well- 

The phone would ring. 

Like she knows or somethin'. 

A thousand miles from her-maybe more, depending on where she is-and she still senses him. 

Shit. 

All that sensing. 

She's the only one who knows... Aside from me, an'... 

He finished off his beer and licked his lips. 

How appropriate, John-boy. 

Lick your lips. Save the best for last, huh? 

You're one real sick puppy, aren'tcha? 

No wonder he fell for you. 

Sick bastard. 

He bowed his head and smiled to himself. 

Here I am, Walter, on a beach off the coast of Maine, tryin' to enjoy this early retirement I've managed to wrangle from the Bureau, and what am I thinkin' of? 

You. 

Drinkin' my beer, wallowin' in pity, remem'ering all the women in my life, the good and the bad and the best of the screws and fuck-ups and one-night-stands and what? 

What. 

Huh. 

You were the one to tell me to get the hell outta there, Walt. The X-Files. Shut down. For good. Mulder and Scully won't fight this one. Go. Now. While you still can. 

How the hell did you do that? 

Million dollar question time, Walter: why in hell did you do that? 

To me? 

He forcefully threw the empty beer bottle into the water, smirked at the boisterous, splashing sound it made, and looked up at the stars once again. 

I'm fucked-up drunk. Fucked-up horny an' drunk. 

Fucked-up. 

Walter. 

Sergei. 

Skinner. 

Sir. 

A.D. 

He laughed drunkenly, hiccupped, and lowered his tanned, shirtless back onto the rough sand. He could see the stars better this way. He could remember better this way. 

Remem'er. 

Who? 

You. 

My boss. 

My friend. 

My. 

One time. 

Fuck-up. 

His eyelids fluttered closed. He listened to the sound of the trees behind him. The leaves, the branches, the wind, rustled, and groaned and tapped and creaked and whistled, and... 

He could hear the sound of footsteps, echoing in the dark, musty basement of the Hoover Building... 

He was remem'ering, wasn't he? 

"Yeah," he groaned under his breath and allowed his mind to wander back- 

Back-way back... 

To that time. 

That one time. 

That one time that he only allows himself to remember once in a while. 

When he's drunk silly. 

When he's alone. 

When he's lonely. 

When he misses him. 

When he has the balls enough to admit he misses him. 

Walt... 

Footsteps echoing in the basement... 

He remembered... Needed-no, ached-to remem'er... 

* * *

**AUDS'S PART STARTS HERE!!!!!!!!!**

It was just an ordinary day in the basement. Hell, as _ordinary_ as any day can be on the X-files. Then again, even Alien Central should be vacant on a Saturday afternoon. But John had dustbunnies to find, and file cabinets to move around. That morning, he'd already cleaned the house, mowed the lawn, washed the truck - might as well give the office that 'new look' Monica has been suggesting. Scully's gone, and Doggett's decided stay. He tries to convince himself that he is forfeiting any career advancement because he wanted to answer the Big Questions. But really it was just so he can help protect William. And Mulder. And Scully. Hence the father complex. 

Anyway, dressed in a t-shirt that'd probably seen better days, and faded blue jeans, he started studying the 'floor plan' Monica had doodled on her message pad. Basically she wanted more room. "Equal partners, John." she'd said with a grin. 

So he started moving stuff around, dragging them mostly, and making enough noise that he was sure security would be here anytime now. Maybe they'd give him a hand. This would sure be much easier with two people. John's not young anymore. This little workout will surely be felt tomorrow morning. Just then, he heard the ding of the elevators, followed by footsteps approaching. 

"John." Last person he expected to see darkening the door of his office late Saturday afternoon. 

"Sir." John acknowledged with a nod. 

"What are you doing here?" gesturing his aborted attempt to move the filing cabinets. 

"Just rearranging things." John said, showing Skinner Monica's drawing. A sad look briefly crossed Skinner's eyes, as if he was realizing again that Scully's gone. 

"Don't you have better things to do than coming into the office on a Saturday?" Skinner said, not unkindly. 

`Don't you?' John thought but didn't say. 

With a slight shake of his head, Skinner shrugged out of his jacket. 

"Let me give you a hand with those." 

Things were much easier with two pairs of hands, but it also got really warm in the office. As the two men grunted and pushed, the afternoon passed by quickly. As they were about to put the last cabinet in place, Skinner's sweaty hand slipped and caught on the sharp corner of a drawer flying out. 

"Ahh shit!" Skinner growled as his side of the cabinet fell to the ground with a thud. There was a gash clear across his palm that's gushing blood enthusiastically now. John lowered his side of the cabinet and hurried to Skinner's side. 

"Are you okay?" John inquired with worried eyes as he held Skinner's bloody hand. 

* * *

**ENDS'S PART STARTS HERE**

"Fine," the A.D. muttered under his breath as he looked around the office uneasily. Bloody hand, sweaty palms, crowded room... 

John Doggett holding your fingers, worried that you hurt yourself... 

It's a gash, Doggett. Give it up. 

You're not my momma. 

And it's not a goddamn boo-boo you kiss away-got it?! 

"Thatsa..." Doggett pulled his boss's hand closer to his own face and furrowed his eyebrows. "Nasty cut ya got there, Sir. Hang on a sec." 

Skinner watched, frowning meekly, as the other man deftly swung his left arm over a desk and pulled the top drawer open. "What-" 

Doggett half-smirked before he indicated the drawer with an arched eyebrow. "Mon's got band aids..." 

"I'm fine." 

"Your hand's bleedin'." 

"Yeah-" 

"Want me to put it on?" 

What are we talking about, John? Are we still discussing Agent Reyes's band aids, because if we're not... I'm not too sure... Am I...? 

Skinner sighed heavily and reluctantly held out his injured hand. "`Can't do it myself." 

Doggett shrugged and began to press the band aid into Skinner's palm. 

"Ahh-watch it." 

"`M sorry. Bound to hurt... Maybe you should-" 

"You call her 'Mon'?" 

Nodding, Doggett released Skinner's hand and rubbed his palms against his thighs. Damn. Skinner had sweaty hands... Too damn warm to hold, in a place like this. Instantly, he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Where in hell were these stray thoughts comin' from, anyway? And what the hell did Skinner really want from him, down here, on a Saturday? "Just some times, Sir. We're... uh..." He busied himself by throwing out the scraps of paper left behind by the band aid. "We're close. Good friends... We-" He looked up, noticed Skinner's unguardedly curious expression and decided that he had said enough. "We've known each other a while." 

"You work well together." 

"Yeah. We do." Doggett turned his back and attempted to straighten out the drawer that had fallen out and cut Skinner's hand. "You ever miss it, Assistant Director?" 

"Miss what?" Skinner asked as he distractedly rubbed the area around his injury. "Having a partner?" 

"Sure. `Mean, kinda gets awful lonely doin' paperwork, don't it?" 

"I miss going out. Being a field agent, yeah. But it's not that bad, John." Skinner perched himself on Doggett's desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Kinda like..." he looked at his companion obliquely, realizing for the first time that they had an awful lot in common, after all. 

An inexplicable drive to protect Scully. 

A resigned type of frustration when it came to Mulder. 

A past in the Marines. 

An ex-wife. 

A lonely life-the instant result of a restored, but imposed, status as a bachelor. 

"After a divorce. Y'know? You miss it but you don't." 

Doggett looked over his shoulder and nodded slightly. "Think I know what you mean, Sir." 

"Yeah." 

"You were married a long time?" 

Skinner watched as the other man carefully removed and rearranged books and file folders nearby. He couldn't help but admire the fact that Doggett routinely and carefully moved his partner's things out of harm's way as he puttered around the cramped basement office. "Long enough. You?" 

"Nah. I'd give anything to be married again." 

"Same woman, or...?" 

Doggett smiled at this-a nice, pleasant, genuine smile that crinkled his eyes and seemed to make his ears stick off the sides even more. "I dunno." 

"Years of tryin' for me. Finally got the hint and gave up. Sharon and I still talk, though-on and off. When she feels like it." 

"Sounds to me like you never got divorced." 

Skinner looked up from his reverie, made eye contact with Doggett, and realized that he was only joking, only trying to lighten the mood, only trying to let him know that he understood. Understood that things need not be said, because he's felt and perhaps, still feels those same things, too. 

"How's your hand lookin', Sir?" 

Skinner shrugged and looked down at it. The band aid was starting to get soaked with blood. Until now, he hadn't felt the incessant throbbing, where the drawer had sliced through his skin. "Fine." 

"It's still bleedin'. Musta gotcha real hard." Again, Doggett stopped what he was doing and grabbed his hand. "Man, that's-" 

"You care too much, Doggett." 

"`xcuse me?" His blue eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased in confusion. 

"Why're you still here?" 

* * *

**AUDS'S PART STARTS HERE...**

"Still where?" Doggett answered a little too quickly. "Still where?" he repeated with a sigh. 

The question hung in the air unanswered. Seconds ticked by, Doggett holding Skinner's hand, blood seeping out insistently, staining the cuff of Skinner's long sleeve t-shirt. It's really warm. Hot, even. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. As long as Doggett didn't think too much about the fact that he is holding A.D. Skinner's hand, liking the reassuring human contact. No, not just any human contact. Monica is the touchy-feely type, so there was no shortage of gentle touches or soft patting working with her. Touching Skinner was different. It's like a 'I understand' and a 'yes, I know' and a 'me too' all rolled into one. Doggett stared at their joined hands, not really seeing it. The roughness of Walter's hand, the stickiness of the blood, the soft throbbing of the wound, all registered as separate sensations to John. 

<>

What the hell is wrong with him?! John dropped Walter's hand as if it were on fire. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he started to mumble something incoherent. "Uh..., sir -" Turning to leave, John cleared his throat again, "I need some air -" 

"John." Walter's uninjured hand reached out and stilled Doggett's exit. The hand tightened into a firm grasp on Doggett's shoulder. Pulled back by Skinner, Doggett was forced to meet the eyes he's been avoiding for the past 10 minutes. 

All the times he's been confused by Skinner's strange expressions now make perfect sense. All the times Scully has looked at Skinner's face instead of his own when he was injured, as if she was more worried about how Skinner was feeling rather than Doggett's condition. All the times that Monica has sent him upstairs to deliver their reports. All the times that he was allowed to go straight into Skinner's office even if he was early for their appointment. The way Skinner flinched at hearing him say "Mon"... 

Damn, his hand was still bleeding. 

In one swift motion, Doggett pulled off his shirt and ripped a wide strip of fabric off the right sleeve. John took Skinner's hand again, carefully peeling off the soaked band aid. With extreme concentration and steadfastly refusing to look into Walter's eyes again, he took his hand and tied the torn piece of the shirt around the wound. His hands worked mechanically while his mind races out of control. He can feel Skinner's eyes on his sweat gleaned chest. He tucked the corners of the knot into the rest of the fabric, finishing his makeshift bandage. 

* * *

ENDS's part starts here... 

"What're you-" 

"Hold still. I'm not done yet." 

Skinner watched in fascination as the bare-chested Doggett picked up his now-discarded and ripped shirt and wiped his superior's bloodied hand with it. "Now you make sure you wash up that-" 

"John." 

Doggett swallowed hard and nodded to himself, all the while rubbing the shirt fabric against the exposed skin of Walter's palm. "Yeah?" 

"What are you doing?" 

The younger man's face reddened significantly, as though he hadn't realized what exactly it was he had been doing until it was pointed out to him. "Fixin' you up, Sir." 

Strange. How those four words, spoken in his deep raspy voice, could make Skinner raise his eyebrow in a way Doggett had never seen before. He found he liked it-the way Skinner's brow arched up behind his wire-rimmed glasses. It was... Well... 

Attractive, somehow. 

Damn attractive. 

He couldn't explain it, and frankly, didn't care to try. 

'Maybe you just need an open mind...' 

He could hear Monica's voice, see Monica's face, in his mind. And, damn, she was smiling at him. Almost too sweetly. 

As if she knew something he didn't. 

Damn. 

His train of thought was broken the second Skinner wrestled his hand away from his grip and squared his broad shoulders. "I should get going." The A.D. looked down the bridge of his nose at Doggett, as though he were examining every tiny freckle on his subordinate's face. "So should you. It's a helluva way to spend your weekend, Agent." 

Agent. 

Doggett blinked and looked to the side, trying to understand what the hell had just happened--if something _even_ happened. He was thinkin' about Monica, and that 'you've-got-a-dirty-mind-and-boy-do-I-know-it' look she gives him once in a while, and then-- 

Her face disappeared. Wiped clean from his memory. Why, and by what? 

"Doggett." 

"Huh?" 

"Are  you okay?" 

"Yeah. Sure. I'm okay." He turned his back on Skinner, tried to concentrate on the roughly sketched floor plan on his desk, and furrowed his eyebrows. For God's sakes, he was standing around half-naked in his office, in front of his boss, and he was doing what?! Studyin' Monica's floor plan. How much more awkward could things get? 

Add to that the fact that he just couldn't understand why it was so important to him all of a sudden, to find out whether Skinner would want to go out for a beer with him or not. Fuck it that he had no shirt on-he really wanted to know, and he couldn't understand why. Jesus Christ. He'd never thought of Skinner outside the office before. Never. Not even once. So why was he thinkin' this way now, of all times and of all places? 

'I'm telling you, John, repression keeps so many people from acting out their deepest, darkest desires. I mean, take people such as yourself...' 

His partner was back, plaguing his thoughts. He could see her, pacing aimlessly in front of the Polish sausage stand on M Street, waiting for a 'hotdog,' a cigarette in one hand, her black hair falling lazily over one big hazel eye. It was a conversation they had had two days ago, about poor repressed souls who lived and died without ever being happy. Truly happy. Naturally, Monica had brought it up. Lord knows how she managed to think up of such crazy talk, but there it was. Obviously, she wasn't repressed, and never once thought of herself as bein' repressed. 

She had taken a drag then, closed her eyes, smiled, and blew a cloud of smoke right into his face. He had stifled a cough. 

And then she said it. 

'I'd be willing to bet you've had a wild fantasy or two about...' 

He had opened his mouth, ready to make a smart-ass comment. He was gonna say somethin' about three- and foursomes, orgies with who knows how many women, mirrors, cameras, leather and chains and whatever--things that every guy would fantasize about in a heartbeat, but-- 

She knocked the wind right out of his smart-ass sails. Hell, she had flipped the whole damn boat over, plunged him in the water, pushed his face well beneath the surface and drowned the fuckin' life outta him. 

'...Assistant Director Skinner.' 

Jesus Jesus Jesus. Christ Christ Christ. 

What was this? 

Monica was a nut, a freak and a meat-and-potatoes genuine psychic, too? 

How the hell did she know? 

Why the hell was he admittin' to this now, with Skinner standing right in front of him, peering at him like he was a half-naked zoo exhibit? Well, sure, he was half-naked... But-- 

"Doggett--" 

He squinted and looked up. His gaze landed smack dab on the other man's lips. He could see traces of stubble on his boss's chin. 

Damn. 

Damn attractive. 

Doggett sighed inwardly, paradoxically resigned, outraged and shocked--all at the same time. 

Repressed, Monica? 

Huh. 

Who, me? 

It was a psychotic thought, he knew. One that would sure as hell cost him his job. 

Fuck it. 

It was Saturday. It was hot and cramped and messy in here. It was supposed to be his weekend, his time off from all this... 

He was in the basement, on a Saturday, for God's sakes. 

How much lower can he go? 

He bit his tongue and shut his mind off from the possibilities that such a comment encouraged him to think about, in the presence of his burly, stubble-faced companion. 

Doggett remembered the last stray thought that flitted half-frantically across his mind the very second he smirked recklessly, reached up and brusquely pressed Skinner's mouth against his own. 

'Good thing Momma an' Daddy ain't alive any more to see this...' 

* * *

**AUDS'S PART STARTS HERE**

Standing waist deep in water as waves assaulted his battered body, the 19 year old Marine stood with his right arm still in a sling. Defiantly he withstood blow after blow from the merciless crashes of salt water that stings his wounds. Sometimes, pain is the only evidence that you are alive. 

Feeling Doggett's rough lips slam into his, Skinner is reminded of his vigil at the Saigon shore immediately after his discharge from the hospital. A vigil for the dead, as if he could bring his buddies back if they would just hold a single wave back. The impact is hard, but then the water swirls around him, as Doggett's flesh now yields on his lips. And now in the basement office nearly three decades later, Skinner is once again grateful to be alive. He snatches his glasses off with one hand and pulls Doggett closer with the other. It's hard to tell who is more surprised. It's easy to see that no one is complaining. 

Again and again, the kisses grow more frantic, building up to a frenzy. Doggett reached to yank Skinner's shirt off, but this interfered with Skinner attempt to get at Doggett's belt, so Skinner quickly pull it over his head himself. Rough hands, sweaty chests and testosterone in overdrive, the situation is rapidly spiraling out of control. One quick tug, and John's jeans were around his ankles. Another jerk, and Skinner's pants were gone too. 

"He-e-re?" Doggett croaked, half incredulously. "People. come in..." 

"Why don't you go lock the door then, Agent?" 

**TO BE CONTINUED, WITH ENDS'S NEXT INSTALLMENT**

* * *

Please, please send comments/feedback to: auds n. You'll help us decide whether we want to continue this fic or not! 

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Auds and Ends 


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